


The Association of Hue

by R_Quarion



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Behavior, Colours, Dancing, Friendship/Love, Gentlemen Kissing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Symbolism, Undercover, associations, clubs, im founder of the Stefan Support Squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Quarion/pseuds/R_Quarion
Summary: Cole Phelps realised his world had been black and white, there was a whole hue he was only just beginning to see. It had started just after his transfer into traffic.
Relationships: Stefan Bekowsky/Cole Phelps
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	The Association of Hue

There was something about Bekowsky that had made Phelps contemplate living in a way he had never considered before. It put perspective into place, where Phelps realised his world had been black and white, there was a whole hue he was only just beginning to see. It had started  _ just _ after his transfer into traffic. 

Suits, pressed. Ties, well, not so brilliantly tied. Upon meeting Bekowsky, Phelps had learnt that he was quite a natural with ties. Phelps didn’t know what drew him to choose a scarlet tie. Contrast, maybe, against the midnight grey of the suit. An attempt to impress, possibly. Strange, that Phelps had seen that colour too often during his time in the war. Crimson used to linger behind his eyelids so strongly that he could taste it too. Metallic, usually accompanied with pained sounds. Yet, a mere week in, and the ruby shade of his tie had occupied too much of his attention. Not because the colour, no, but because Bekowsky had been insistent on fixing it. 

The memories associated with the colour yellow, of being sworn at through gritted teeth stained in laguna, were being shadowed by late nights working. Working in big quotation marks. Truth be told, Bekowsky was a craftsman. Made and mixed drinks for the both of them with a flair of individuality. The lemon wedged into the glasses seemed to be enough to place his memory of the hue with his traffic partner. Sometimes, undeniably, when the lemon was older. More pastel in shade. He'd flinch at the sight of it. Ringing too close to commanders screaming and directing Phelps' every move. Such movement captured his memory of the colour green as well. 

Cover had to be found in times of war. Grass, trees, shrubbery, anything the natural world had been given and turned into what could save a man's life. Not through oxygen but, instead, by taking bullets. It was a few weeks into Traffic that green, and a natural green at that, had his attention. Bekowsky had driven them to the coast, sat in their car to watch the sunrise in the early morning. Waiting for a dispatch call. But the seaweed that lay scattered in the shoreline threw an extra something into the smell of salt on the wind.   
"Ever wonder what's out there, over that great expanse..?" Phelps had whispered, interrupting their silence. A hand that Phelps hadn't expected, trailed softly over to grab at his thigh. The answer for Bekowsky, usually, would have been yes. But he thought for a few seconds longer,  
"Not really. I have everything I need right here." It took Phelps’ all to not kiss Bekowsky right then and there.

Quite often, Phelps had to shake himself away from bad associations. More often now, Phelps was seeing colour as  _ colour _ . Which sounded strange when phrased but Phelps was watching the city of L.A. bloom into something else entirely. 

Stefan had a particular interest in blue cars. A strange trait to have picked up about his partner but Bekowsky would always whistle when he saw one. Cobalt, teal, navy, it didn’t matter. Bekowsky would pretend to slide shades down the bridge of his nose and raise his eyebrows in its direction,   
“You’re unbelievable.” Phelps would scoff, “an idiot at peak.”   
“Maybe so. But. I’m your idiot.” Bekowsky beamed.   
Phelps would shake his head and roll his eyes. He didn’t have a problem with the colour blue, per say, it just rang reminiscent of cold nights where trembling lips would dapple in the shade. Where words would form fog, manifest into material only to then disperse. Arriving at the station had a new-found ridiculousness to it where Phelps smiled at the presence of blue cars.

“Candlehearth…” Bekowsky repeated after Leary had. Their morning debriefs were certainly brief, Leary seemed to be a man for one liners and less so a stickler for detail.   
“Yeah, that’s the one, and give our crooks a  _ warm  _ welcome from us here at Traffic… ha, get it?”   
Phelps blinked in an irrepressible irritance,   
“Certainly do, Sir…” He turned his attention quickly to his snickering partner, “been there before?”   
“Candlehearth? Yeah, nice bar. Big space, good drinks, it’s got this huge---”   
“Let me guess… hearth?”   
“Guess we keep you around for those smarts, huh?” Bekowsky teased. “We’ll head in early evening, ya reckon? Until then…”   
“Leads on the Muiri case…?” Phelps offered,   
“Sold.” Phelps hated that the wink following the statement had him weak in the knees.

The sun had just set and plunged L.A. into darkness as they arrived around the back of the bar. Just as Leary had predicted, the stolen car was parked just by the back door. Their plan was to wait until the thieves came out and to catch them red-handed. Until then, they were left to their own devising.   
“Head in, get a look at them, know their faces in the case that they get away?” Phelps ran Bekowsky through the plan one last time,   
“They won’t get away.” Bekowsky leant over to fix Phelps’ tie, “fucking hopeless with these aren’t you, Cole..?”   
Phelps shot him a side glare before getting out of their car, ignoring the heat tingeing at his ears. 

“Bartender! Two gin rickeys for my friend and I, thanks.”    
Bekowsky leant forward, swaying slightly as if already tipsy,   
“Is that your car out back?” He asked, drawling a few syllables and unnecessarily readjusting his hat, “is this falling off, Charles?”   
Phelps nearly,  _ nearly,  _ laughed at the act. It certainly hadn’t been a part of their plan but he fell into it quickly, making sure his hat was on perfectly fine,   
“No, Henry, it’s fine…”  
“No, the car's not mine. That gentleman over there, Arthur, it’s his.” The bartender handed them their drinks before giving Bekowsky a glance, “keep him steady, yeah?”   
Phelps froze up slightly as Bekowsky linked arms with him,   
“He’s a few too many in already… dame broke up with him, you understand.”   
“Broad was lucky to have you. Her loss. Be sure he has a good night.” 

Still taking steps with sways, Bekowsky sat across from the gentleman they had been directed too,    
“Henry, leave the man alone.” Phelps hissed at him, “I’m so sorry Sir, my friend here is a bit too---”   
“That your car out back?” He stammered slightly, peering through his own squinted eyelids,   
“Sir, I’m sorry.” Phelps watched as the man looked from himself to Bekowsky and back in pure confusion, “I’m Charles Sullivan, this is my friend Henry Ross.”  
“Arthur Siegel,” He introduced himself, “yes, that’s my car out back, what about it?”   
“Nothing, just he loves that model... Bugatti Type 57sc Atlantic, it’s a gorgeous vehicle.”    
“Indeed it is, both of you have good tastes…”    
Phelps gave him a pity smile and took Bekowsky by the wrist,   
“Come on Henry, leave him alone.”   
“Only if you dance with me, Charles.” Bekowsky had a smug charm to him and it sent a shiver down Phelp’s spine, “this song used to be that broad’s favourite. Can just imagine the anger on her face if we were to enjoy it!”    
“Go on, eager beaver.” Siegel nodded as he lit a cigarette, “alcohol has him fubar, let him enjoy it.”

Leading Phelps to the floor where people were already fitting into the beat of the song, Bekowsky nearly had to dodge a slap,   
“I’m an awful dancer!” Oh, but the look of glee in Bekowsky’s face made it worth it.   
“Just, relax  _ Charles _ .” Bekowsky ran his hands over Phelps’ shoulders, “move in time with me, it’s all okay,  _ we know it’s him _ … just another tick for LA’s Golden Boy, aye?”   
Somehow, that had been enough to take the tension out of his muscles.

_ Oh, across the alley from the Alamo, _

_ When the starlight beams its tender glow, _

_ The beams go to sleep and then there ain't no dough, _

_ For the people passin' by... _

Phelps’ worry evaporated amidst the lyrics and the violet club lights. He hadn’t lied when he had said that he was a bad dancer. Two left feet without a doubt. The lights pulsed in a stunning shade of mulberry, the music was just deafening enough to easy Phelps enough to engage himself into the dancing. A trickle of sweat rolled down the small of his back in the stuffy air but his body felt freer then it had in a long time. The fade into amethyst reminded Phelps of bruises. From darker shades to lighter ones, he had become used to the forming of purple on his skin. Be it training or a brawl, the evidence was long lasting in lavender.

Hypnotised by the smile on Bekowsky’s face in the purple shades was enough to blink away the imagery of bruises. They had a case close to closed and a part of Phelps wished they were at this club  _ just _ to dance. Maybe, maybe he could let himself enjoy it properly one night. He was certainly enjoying the feeling of Bekowsky’s free hand trailing his waist as they moved in rhythm. Phelps wanted to be so much closer. Reality quickly slapped Phelps upside the face when he remembered where they were. 

“I need to go back to the car.” And Phelps had left without another word, leaving Bekowsky alone and confused in the lilac. 

Phelps was only alone for a brief few minutes, his suit damp with rain.   
“Didn’t even leave a tip.” Bekowsky scoffed as he slammed the door, hopping into the passenger’s seat. The blinking bright lights of the bar’s back exit was the only thing reminding Phelps of passing time. There was silence between them, a kind of silence that was only somewhat tense. The colours dipping in and out were from all over the spectrum. Neon in nature and highlighting the back alley where the rain had left it cold and wet.

“Are you okay? Did I push you too far?”   
Phelps wanted to bless Bekowsky's innocent soul. Thank God, if he was real, for the simplicity that Bekowsky tended to see things in. At no fault of his own, that was, Phelps genuinely admired the trait. It meant that Bekowsky was more-likely happier on his day to day. Not through blissful ignorance but through seeing a cup half full.  
“No, Stefan, it wasn’t that…”   
“What was it?”   
“I…” Phelps had sighed, looking over to Bekowsky, “I’ve been trying to  _ figure myself out _ …”   
Stefan smiled in confusion, furrowing his brow and gesturing to Phelps,   
“Figure yourself out?” He laughed a little, “if anyone’s got their shit together, it’s you Cole…”    
Cole frowned and shook his head. Eyes on his case book but thoughts in the clouds.   
“No… it’s…” He bit his tongue, the pieces falling into places he didn’t want them to.   
“It’s what…?” Bekowsky’s tone was  _ too good _ for Phelps. Too kind, too caring, too genuine.   
“It’s as if I’m trying to figure myself out before you do.” His lip trembled only slightly, “it’s as if you know me better than I know myself…”

There it was. That  _ final _ remaining colour left unassociated. Pink flush creeping over Bekowsky’s cheeks, rose-like and almost embarrassingly endearing. Soft, peach coloured lips opening to say words that never arrived, he played it off as a whispered laugh. Phelps was used to seeing that flesh split and bleeding. Shades of pink that shouldn’t be open to the air; skin opening to bone. Phelps closed his eyes, took a breath, and watched the rips in tissue sew themselves back together. The mind could be a powerful thing, he acknowledged, opening his sight back to the reality of raw pink lips pursed into a smile.    
“I’d like to think I know you, Cole…”   
And in the dark of the night he reached out, took Bekowsky’s jaw in his hands and sunk into a kiss that felt like home. Separating briefly to look each other in the eyes. Phelps’ dragging down to look at those lips. Neon lights of every shade reflecting over them whenever the bar’s sign flashed. Trailing the pad of his thumb over Bekowsky’s lower lip, watching bright red reflection sinking into pink, he whispered.   
“I think I’d like to know you a little better, Stefan…”

**Author's Note:**

> back on my garbage content thanks x
> 
> Song:  
> The Mills Brothers- Across the Alley from the Alamo


End file.
